Breath of Spring
by isolcity
Summary: Marea the Silent has explored almost every inch of Tyria when she is called away by an unknown source to teach a Norn Chieftan's daughter the ways of the adventurer. Unsure why she has been picked out of anonymity for the task, but offered a hefty reward, Marea is determined to show Kay Svipsdottir what it means to know the lay of the land.
1. Prologue

The great wall yawns against the sky, stony veins weaving in amongst each other, like thousands of arms linked in a barricade of embrace. Massive avian brows glare down upon the crumpling stone bridge, as if daring any to set foot in a place of hollowed sanctum. I keep walking, unconsciously reaching behind my back to rest my hand on my staff. I spare a glance over my shoulder as climbing vines, thriving so as to sprout trees from the surface of the wall, stretch their cool shadows over my face. My friends are gone. Not even one demonic entity runs along my flank, eager to please and protect. And then I realize, they weren't even there when I arrived.

I start awake with a jerk, slamming my head against the side of the wagon I lie in. Cold cuts me to the bone, all of sudden descending upon me where before I felt neither chill nor warmth. I sit up, breath fanning thick around me as I take a grounding gulp of air. I am here, in the present, in the back of a Norn miner's cart, on my way to Wayfarer Foothills. And because it is beyond freezing, I am going to put on my winter wear.

"So you're awake, lass? Had a bit of a start there? We crossed the border into Norn territory an hour ago, and we'll be nearing Hoelbrak soon," says the wagon driver, a typically-burly Norn man with a copper beard in a thick messy braid and not nearly enough clothes to cover his chest. I pull thick swathes or wool from my pack and tie one around my exposed stomach, the other two over my bare forearms. A final piece is wrapped around my neck, covering my collarbone up to my eyes.

"Funny how quickly the cold sets in; it's like there's a wall of temperate weather keeping winter away from the rest of Tyria," I say, muffled by the scarf.

"What?!" he shouts back, as if him being unable to hear me means that I can't hear him.

"Nothing!" I yell at him, not bothering to hide a glare. He takes no notice, just nods in acceptance, and cheerily hums a mountain tune as we screech and jerk along the frozen tundra. We roll through an expanse of flatlands now, covered with an impeccable blanket of untouched snow, but soon tall, sloping mountains will close in around us, making passage significantly more difficult. The roads are built for the width of one cart, so when there are two carts, wanting to go in opposite directions, it becomes a slight issue. I already have half a mind to walk the rest of the way if that happens.

I stare deadpan out the back of the cart, crossing my legs and counting my breaths. The boredom sets in immediately. Two years ago the prospect of climbing the Shiverpeaks and braving the glacial valleys would have thrilled me, set my mind alive like a spinning top, but with so few mysteries left in the vastness of Tyria, I now only find joy in isolated moments, breathtaking and cosmically jarring, but not enough to permanently swell the heart of a seasoned explorer. There is just one place left for me to know, for me to taste the air and learn the sounds and touch the city until the horizon fades into the sky, then there are no more secrets for me. And I would still be working on that self-prescribed mission, if not for-

"So, where did you say you were from?"

"Divinity's Reach," I growl, pulling my knees up to my chest and burrowing my face into them.

"I think you said Divinity's Reach. Is that right? My comrade traveled there many years ago, hasn't returned since. But he sends me a letter every year, and I suppose that must be enough. He sees wondrous sights, but never fights a good fight or goes on an adventure. It is quite a shame, for Norn to so seclude themselves cities better meant for vacationing than any honorable lifestyle."

He pauses to wait for my response. I stay silent and mentally prepare for him to yammer on to eternity. But instead, I feel a change in the mood. It slides over the wagon with a smooth icy chill, hurt feelings quietly clear from the sudden slack of his stiff back.

I keep my eyes straight ahead, and watch the landscape rumble by.


	2. Stoking the Fire

After another hour we break through the snow and find ourselves coming to a stop on sparse green grass, a refreshing Autumn chill still biting the air. I hop off the back of the wagon, figuring this is where I am to walk from, though it does seem a bit spiteful that the miner should make me go on foot when he is traveling the rest of the way anyway.

"Don't forget your pack, lass," he says, climbing down from the wagon and coming round the back to hand me my bag. It was only a foot away from me to begin with; I could've gotten it much quicker myself.

I take it from him without a glance.

"It was nice riding with you. Off to Lornar's Pass, then."

"I thought you said we were going the same way," I exclaim, yanking my scarf down in dismay.

"No, I just like to help a fellow traveler. It is not that much out of the way," the Norn says with a sidelong smile as he climbs onto the wagon. I scramble up to him and grab the reigns before he can prompt the harnessed dolyaks.

"I'm sorry," I say, spitting out words before I can stop myself, "I shouldn't have been so disrespectful to you. I didn't realize you were doing me such a favor."

"Doing someone a favor that is slightly bigger than other favors should be little cause for a change of heart," the Norn says, raising a playful eyebrow. "You should simply be nice to everyone you meet. I can guarantee the world will seem a kinder place in return."

"Now you're getting preachy, stranger," I say, backing up to leave. The Norn laughs, a deep, crackling laugh, like the flames of a winter bonfire.

"My name is Yngvar Strongarm. There, we are acquainted."

"My name's Marea the Silent!" I call after him as the wagon jostles into motion and wheels away amidst a cloud of dust.

I start in the opposite direction, down the sloping road that I know leads to the Festival Hall. Multi-colored banners are strung from the trees that line one side of the road, while a length of cloth has been nailed to the sheer cliff face to my left. It features a crude, almost comical, illustration of a woman's face, with the words: _Long live Kay Svipsdottir, fiercest of the winter warriors, brightest of the seven sons, may she bless us with her eternal spirit._

"It's not like she's dead. Calm yourselves," I mutter under my breath before continuing the walk. Since receiving the summons to come escort Kay Svipsdottir around the world, I have tried everything in my power to learn more about her. Two thousand gold pieces can't really be argued with, but that doesn't mean I can't attempt to screen my subject before essentially sabotaging myself. No one outside the Norn lands seems to know her personally, though I did manage to gather some rudimentary information. She is the youngest child of the ruling Chieftain in Wayfarer Foothills, the only daughter behind seven highly successful sons, is somewhat old to just now be going out into the world, and has a cult-like following rung in by her supposed feminine charm. When I passed through the Foothills years ago, she had been away with her father in Frostgorge Sound; her presence hoped to seal a tremulous deal. Something with allies and armies, battles that I choose not to involve myself in. Far easier to fight only for yourself.

A gust of wind sends a raucous drinking tune my way, and with a sharp turn I find myself in a great clearing dominated by the Festival Hall, a large timber building built in the traditional Norn fashion, with a high arched roof and open air balconies before it. Streamers to match the ones in the trees are looped from every available surface, and a dozen long wood tables are all packed to the brim with giant men and women, and one Asuran bard, who leaps from table to table conducting the "music" and tossing handfuls of glitter over the guests. A huddle of young girls, already larger than me, giggle drunkenly as the glitter washes over them and then twinkles out of existence, like the memory of a peaceful dream.

I warily approach the balcony, hoping no tipsy mountain men will try and carouse me into celebration. I slip behind one table, two dozen residents paying me no mind, and come to a rest in the corner, where I hoist myself onto the balcony railing and wait. No one lady seems to be singled out from the masses as something special, but given the banner of praise I passed on the way here, I would think that the party was for the one and only Svipsdottir.

A distinguished Norn, slightly younger than me, charming and feminine... a sea of pleasant, common faces overwhelms me, the sharp roar of chatter punctuated with shouts of laughter. I almost want to cover my ears, but any strange behavior would likely be noticed, and it would be better to suffer in silence than get dragged into the din.

"HOW DARE YOU INSULT MY MOTHER!"

I throw myself to the side as a massive Norn man is picked up by an equal giant and goes flying against the railing where I was just sitting. Unfazed, the thrown Norn, a square-set man with a strange partially shaved head, stands right back up and yells at the top of his lungs, "FOR THE BUNNY SPIRIT!"

The two men crash together like rhinos, all of two feet away from me, and the crowd goes wild. I lean down to the woman at the end of the table, who's somewhat more subdued than everyone else.

"Should we do something about that?!" I shout in her ear, still barely able to hear my own voice.

"Oh, they'll be fine. Bjarni likes to cause trouble so he has more chances to honor his dear 'bunny spirit,'" says the woman, tone erring toward skeptical as she turns back to the fight. I barely duck in time as an arm like a log swings over where my head would be as Bjarni punches his opponent in the face, sending a splatter of blood across the onlookers. The woman I spoke to demurely wipes off her eye.

"Enough!" cries the Asura, glitter and smiles vanished and replaced with an air of importance a king would be hard pressed to ignore. The crowd falls silent, even the brawlers immediately ceasing their fight, as the Asura table-leaps to a pedestal by the door leading into the Hall.

"The moment you have all been waiting for has come!" he cries with a sweep of his arms. Claps of thunder ring out from around the balcony, and the guests look around in surprise and amazement, trying to find the source.

"The most celebrated maiden in all of the homelands, for whom this festival is wrought, the shining gem of Chief Svip's brood and next in line to the chieftainship, I give you the beautiful, the mesmerizing, the great Kay Svipsdottir!"

I barely have time for surprise that she will inherit the chieftainship before, with an excessive burst of glitter, the woman herself comes charging out of the Hall and in one easy stride bounds onto the central dining table. She is nine hundred pounds of femme fatale, towering with the tallest Norn, toned but sensible muscles leaving her arms and legs thick and graceful. Thick boughs of hair, yellow as the summer sun, are pulled back in a ponytail and wrapped tight in a sleeve of crisscrossing rope, and whip from side to side at the slightest provocation. She wears sparse clothing, a long skirt with a slit up to her waist and a top that leaves arms, shoulders and stomach exposed, and stark, linear tattoos stand bright against her pale skin and colorful "clothes."

There is no way that woman is young enough to need training. Not in a Norn's world.

She sweeps her gaze over the cheering onlookers, men and women alike whistling and swooning. Her face is strong and angular, but holds a friendliness and ease that betrays trust and naivety. When she speaks, her voice is low and warm, a sonorous alto that could coax the shyest badger out of hiding, but still thrums with power, conviction enough to raise the morale of an entire army.

"Thanks be to you all for joining me on this wonderful day for the celebration of my five-and-twentieth year!" she says to crowd, resounding without effort, echoing back from the nearby woods. Everyone leans forward with anticipation.

Dead silence as she lets her head droop and breathes slowly, methodically, entering a trancelike rhythm. And then something shifts in the air, like a firecracker, or a spark, suddenly caught on the wind.

With an almost inhuman roar, she throws her head back and fire pours out of her mouth in billowing clouds of flame. The Norn cheer wildly.

Definitely not what I was expecting.


End file.
